And, the loss of a Nightingale

Laggard, and the ships drive down
emancipated parts
tapping the sea with reasons
to soar back up

Like fresh whales and pieces of meat
falling to the floor from human mouths sick
of holograms

And trawling and fixing for our debts
ghost rythms, shaving off grissel and time
passing over
stuble
their intricate need
of each
tooth, hair, of

All of us, using the same
tools
ungendered across our bodies , my hand rubbing the grooves where your arse sat in the grass
all of the words now, slumbersome after a work day, but still able to see

Where you sat and I sat,
the beuatiful knife that few have, but always will
(needing only one type from one glance to begin)
saying to it: (like the mad do) and we do!

‘Good God
blunt again
bitch.’

How many steaks have I used you on?
come on, where’s your guts – – , oyy… go onnn…’

But it’s ok, but it’s the silence

Whilst I make a cheap dinner
the walls do not know that you are a little mad

They turn around like a house of mirrors made from cards
and
say
something back.

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